Off Into The Fog

A small pile of discarded soil shifted beneath his feet, one of the many that lay scattered like anthills around the mound of red soil upon which nothing would ever grow.

Above, clouds gathered over the small grove beside the creek that the two of them had whisked away to so many times before. It felt right. The wildflowers were in bloom, and the water, rich with snowmelt, lapped gently along the smooth rocks. He would say this was where they first fell in love, but that would be a lie. He had loved her long before.

It could have been hours, it could have been days, Dunstan did not know. He held his gaze on the mound before him, unable to look at the other. Not for the first time that day, the thought of laying down on the grass, of joining them, crossed his mind. His entire life was within this grove.

Dunstan knew instinctively he should feel a deep sadness. He should be on his knees weeping. That was the expectation of him. Anything less would reflect poorly upon him. As it was, every step he took through town was discussed over ale, in the church pews, as men and boys harvested crops in their bountiful fields. He should have been prostrate.

Instead, he felt numb. Dunstan’s arms pulsed from the digging, and the hunger…the hunger never left. Amidst the numbness came the harsh reality: Dunstan had failed. No matter how many times he said he was not hungry as his stomach cramped, no matter how long he spent tilling fields as their crops failed, no matter how far he walked to spend the last of his dignity to ask for scraps, it did not lessen his guilt.

And yet, that morning, Dunstan awoke to a bushel of carrots on the step of their hovel–a gift from an unnamed well wisher. What that would have done a few days before…

His thoughts were far away as he stared at the mound. The door needed to be rehung. A storm was coming, and it would clash against the stones and let water in. He needed to rehang the door. Dunstan could not explain why it was so important, but there was nothing more he needed to do than rehang that door. The thought consumed him as it stood beside his numbness. He needed to move…he needed to go home and rehang the door. Above the numbness, above the hunger, and well above the turbulent well of all the realities he’d yet to even truly feel, he needed to hang his stupid door.

Church bells rang in the distance. Would the dearly departed get a benediction from the high altar? If they did, they’d note his absence, and pass their final, silent verdict from which there was no absolution. No one would ever pass judgment to his face, of course, that would be unbecoming, but he would know. In secret, they would whisper of his failures or, worse, his complicity.

Dunstan shivered, which had nothing to do with the cool breeze of the impending storm. Standing beside the numbness was another feeling, one that made him nauseous: It was horror. All that he had once loved in this cursed world twisted into a grotesque abomination of viscera and blood upon their blankets as her life drained from her. All Dunstan could do was stand there powerlessly pleading for someone, anyone, to help. Their liege lord refused to answer. The priests refused to answer. Finally, the Gods answered with their cruelest mercy.

Yet he awoke to carrots. Dunstan clenched his fists, his pulse rising. Had they answered, maybe he would not be beneath the mound of soil at his feet.

He…

The boy, their boy, never even cried. She never even laid eyes on him, but he supposed that was the mercy in it. In what should have been their greatest moment of triumph, there was only horror and feebleness. And in that thought, the horror gave way to his own self-loathing. Dunstan had stood there as his world bled to death, scrambling with untrained hands in a futile effort to save them both because they could not afford to have a midwife. Hells above and below, they could scavenge bones for a broth!

Now both he and Mildrith lay beneath the soil, in the place they had loved. It was the only thing he could take solace in, the one thing that he could do. Dunstan had wished to name him for his father, should they have a boy. Mildrith had smiled at that, her lips curving beneath auburn hair as she nodded her head along accordingly, but Dunstan knew the look in her green eyes too well to know they would name him what she wanted. He smiled back, loving her all the more for it. She was his fire in the cold dark, guiding him to this little grove beside the water where life was full and beautiful.

That fire now lay suffocated by the red soil, and he was again lost. She had whispered the name in his ear, in a moment as they lay together before sleep took over. Dunstan fell asleep with a smile on his face. She was right, after all. It was the right name. He could not bring himself to say it. That moment still broke through the horror, the numbness, the loathing and brought him warmth. Dunstan would hold that, keep it silent in his heart. That was for him.

For the first time since he placed the last shovel full of soil upon the mound, he looked at where Mildrith would lay forever. A butterfly sat atop the mound, yellow wings pulsing flat, then upright.

Flowers, it needs flowers. She deserves flowers.

Dunstan should have placed a mage totem, or a priest's Triskele, and maybe he would in time after he came to terms with their culpability. Mage Master Siefordius at least offered herbs to ease her pain when the time for delivery drew near even if Dunstan doubted they helped her passing. So much blood…

Father Ignatius offered nothing but quiet scorn, and any hope for a Sister to lend a helping hand died with his disregard.

Still, Mildrith deserved flowers. She had loved them so.

Despite his fatigue, despite his hunger, Dunstan set about gathering a bushel of wildflowers from the surrounding forest floor. Something, anything to cover the patch of red soil. That would be better. That…

He paused, hands full of yellow and blue flowers. The grove around them now looked little more than a naked stretch of forest. Once again, with his hands, Dunstan destroyed all that was beautiful around him.

Thunder clapped in the distance, and his thoughts went back to the door. If he did not rehang the door, the hovel would be soaked.

Dunstan looked first at the flowers in his hand and then at the mounds marking the final resting places of his wife and his son. If he placed the flowers upon that mound, that would be it.

There seemed so much more left.

The butterfly left, leaving the mound naked and barren. Mildrith’s beauty deserved something beautiful, some sign of her light beyond this little pile of dirt in the grove he desecrated for a smattering of flowers.

He let the flowers fall through his numb fingers.

As he did, the rain fell down his cheeks like teardrops. Dunstan turned and left, leaving his wife, child, and all he had ever loved to rest.

There was a door to hang.

***

The walk back to their cabin was a blur, and only when its ragged frame and chipped timbers collated out of the hazy background of the forest, did he realize it was now his, not theirs.

Dunstan grew evermore tired of these unceasing revelations. He thought of all the nights laying awake worried about a dripping sound, how he would shape the irrigation ditch the next morning, what would happen if a fox scattered the chickens they hoped to get soon. It all seemed so irrelevant now, and he hated himself for reducing it to such. All he wished for now was to sleep without dreams. He fought the urge to laugh for he knew it would be a mad sound. It seemed more likely to him that Mildrith would walk through that door than for him to sleep soundly.

He froze.

Dunstan was maybe twenty paces from the door. He swore he latched it shut before he left–though he had to admit to himself he could not trust his recollection of that detail. Against his better judgment, he took a few steps closer, but slowly, deliberately. Five steps away, he heard a rustle. It could have been the wind. It could have been his mind playing tricks on him. Dunstan scratched his chin. He was tired. What he needed, he thought, was a nice lie down–Gods, his bed sounded heavenly. As if to lend their support to the notion, his feet pulsed.

That was it, he decided. His mind was playing tricks.

But he had already taken so many steps today, what was a few more? Dunstan altered his path. There was a small window in the kitchen that he could look into. In opposition to the protests of his feet, a gentle breeze blew across the meadow as if in agreement with his decision.

Dunstan peered into the small window and immediately recoiled. He held himself against the shack’s wooden wall, trying in vain to still his breathing.

Despite having ransacked his home, the massive brown bear still rummaged through the shelving, looking for anything and everything. Had fear not gripped his heart, Dunstan would have collapsed in despair.

The world seems so keen on taking everything from me, maybe I should let it.

The Gods’ mercy for all of them. At least they couldn’t label him a coward for making his own escape from this infernal world.

Slowly, he slid down the wooden wall, until he came to rest on his haunches. A crash came from inside his home, a cascading, thundering crash.

Dunstan stood. Even if the bear left, there would be nothing in there for him. His bed would be shredded. The tables would be ruined. No, there was nothing left for him there.

Oddly, more surprising than finding the bear within his home, the thought lifted a weight from his shoulders. All was gone from this spot, and now there were two choices: stay here where there was nothing, or follow the bells into town. Maybe if carrots could be found, so might a roof.

He sighed, and sneaking back around the hovel, followed the path into town.

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A/N:

A bit of a return to the well. If you've enjoyed this, please leave a like and an insight below. If you really enjoyed this, tips to fuel my coffee addiction are always appreciated. All formatting is designed for desktops. Want to read more? Below are the best of the very best of my works: